Fecking Functional…for now

I don’t even know why I am bothering to write this, it’s so inane and par for the course. Still, my brain insists I purge to make room for the next round of insanity inducing bullshit.

Came out of the gate, um…Well, I got up. Before the first step out of bed, I was checking my bank balance to make sure the deposit went through. It’s neurotic and yet…It’s feasible (get to that in a sec.) I got up and let Spook sleep 20 more minutes. Gave me time to order her pictures on line. Well, not order, since they sent the whole batch home with a note “send back what you don’t want with payment for the ones you keep.” WTF. Ass backwards.
True to my word, I got my kid her reward donut for her exemplary behavior last night. Put gas in the car, bought a phone card (I was down to eight minutes and freaking out because, well, that’s what I do and when you grow up as broke as my family was where you had one pair of pants to wear for the entire week…You worry about running out of stuff. Obsessively.)
Once the spawn was schoolified, I went to the bank. The ATM was fucked. Which ensured a trip to the other bank and I do not like it. It keeps your card while processing. And I get panicked that a freak storm is going to appear in thirty seconds, wipe out the power, and my card will be eaten. (And on way there, someone pulled out in front of me and road rage brought out my most obscene language. It’s never a good sign when you’ve been awake ninety minutes and are already screaming C*NT out the window.)
After that it was to pay the net bill. Ran into my sister. Who informed me mom’s direct deposit had not gone in the bank following a new card and pin being established.
And THAT is why I am the paranoid freak that I am. Shit happens. People help a neighbor cut wood for their fireplace, they get killed by falling tree limbs. Computers, routing numbers, banks fuck up. It’s not pessimism. It’s called reality and “feasible fear.” Not like I stop living, but the terror is there just the same until proven otherwise.
But anyway…Sis and I discussed the worsening of our mom’s dementia (precursor to Alzheimer’s) and how she’s so vicious to everyone then doesn’t even remember doing or saying evil things.It’s sad. And it also makes me leery of leaving my kid with mom unless sis is there because good intentions are not enough when you turn on a burner and leave it there for an hour before realizing you forgot to turn it off. Mom’s heading into dangerous territory. It’s not her fault, but wow. She’s going to end up in a nursing home if anything happens to my sister. Because I’ve got enough on my plate and I cannot live with my mother. Love her and all but she was evil before all this and she’s more evil now. One of us would end up disemboweled.
Okay, worst case scenario, but still.

From there it was my worst nightmare, all for the sake of my kid: Wal-Mart. UGHHHHHH. I was sweating and the anxiety had me ready to smack bitches. And the place is so big it takes twenty minutes just to run in for one item, ffs. I had that place and yet it’s that or Shopko and I hate that place worse.
Now I am going to have to avoid the cosmetic aisle at Wally World because they re-did it and installed bright ass fluorescent lights EVERYWHERE. I can’t tell what color is what because I AM GOING FECKING BLIND.
I didn’t breathe until I got out of that hell hole. Now my kid has her wheels and cheese she’s gaga for and I got my frozen lasagna cos honestly I am too lazy to cook my own. Nuke it, fuck it.

Then it was Dollar Tree. I don’t mind that as much. Then it was Family Dollar for forty pounds of cat supplies. And finally, off to pay rent. Came home, packed everything in, fed the cats inside and out, put stuff away…
And the biggest miracle of all….
After four days (yes, I know gross, but wet wipes and skin so soft really do give the illusion of being clean and smelling nice) I showered. Shaved all my Sasquathy body hair. I even splurged on three dollar bottle of Herbal Essences because after six months of dollar shampoo, my scalp is seriously irritated. (And I think part of that was caused back during the first great lice outbreak when I used that chemical shit that was pure toxin on the scalp, viva robicomb and mayo.)

Now…I should eat but I’m not hungry. Whereas earlier after taking the meds I was hungry and yet the thought of food made me start gagging. No happy medium. Not to mention I ran out of my Lamictal 200 so I had to take eight 25 mg in addition to all the other pills. I could be a fucking pharmacy. But I know others who have it way worse with pill intake.
While talking to my sis earlier, she talked about how she only “got better” after quitting the meds completely because “pills aren’t going to solve your problems.”
True that.
But I don’t take pills for every other issue. Nothing for my stomach, nothing for my knees, no painkillers, no daily allergy meds,
I medicate only what hinders my ability to function.
And whether I want to be or not, I have wonky brain chemicals. Meds help. Period. I don’t need my family pointing out what a loser I am. Okay, that’s not what they say though they do call my meds “crazy pills” which seems rather insensitive.

I came to an epiphany. I love to shower. It’s a cleansing relaxing thing. I love coming out smelling of Irish Spring and putting on clothes I haven’t sweat through or slept in. And yet here I am, drowning in a depressive bout, so I am denying myself a simple pleasure. It’s not just that the depression makes it hard work…It’s like I am so disgusted with myself for not “shaking it off” that I am denying myself basic pleasures.
Hopefully once it warms up and stays warm and we are marinating in sweat because we live in a tin box sauna air conditioning can’t touch…I will be taking showers constantly as it’s the only way to cool off in this place during summer.
Or the whore baths will continue. IDK.

What I do know is I am a bit irked with R. All week he was beckoning me to hold his hand and comfort him over Bruce’s death. Then wifey comes home and suddenly, he can’t even respond to my texts. WTF? Not to be a bitch, but you can’t treat someone like that and not expect them to be offended. I mean, replying to a text takes thirty seconds. I’m good enough to fill in while she’s at work and be his buddy but then I’m persona non grata?
Play fair, for fuck’s sake. Rudeness is not acceptable.
But then again, I’m so people’d out (ha, just like last week) when I crash from the anxiety and fighting the depression…last thing I am gonna want is to be bothered by dish dwellers. I’m not being pessimistic, I just know this is the cycle. I function, lowly, I fight the panic and low moods, I become hypomanic functional, then splat.
It is what it is.

I have to pick up my meds. I guess tonight is the start of Latuda. I am very leery. I want to hope for the best but my track record with these newer meds and side effects is not good. My only hope for this stuff is that it i ALLEGEDLY geared toward the depressive episodes of bipolar two.
It could be my magic cocktail.
Or it could be one of those ass trash meds I take once and then immediately flush down the toilet because um…NO.
It’s not lack of cooperation or not wanting to get well. It’s quality of life. If a med makes you feel worse, it’s not worth it. And telling a doctor you need a medication that doesn’t render you into drooling zombie land because you have to take care of your kid, well, that should never become a notation in your file about how you’re uncooperative.

I had no idea this was going to turn into a long purge rant. I rant therefore I am. Busy brain. Once I get the spawn from school I am think we are in for the day and night. Then I can start to recharge my batteries. I’m not good at relaxing when I have looming trips into the dish.

Back to Grey’s Anatomy.
Last week I was glued to it, this week my head is spinning too fast to read or even get interested in what normally enthralls me.
No fucking consistency at all except in the negative stuff.

I am alive. I am lucky. I am…

Clown shoes.


2 Responses to “Fecking Functional…for now”

  1. Clown shoes, indeed. Autocorrect changed shoes to shooters. Figure that one out. It must be in the air for the brain needing a reboot. I’m going to “enjoy” (pfffffbt wtf) a weekend free if parents and kids. Wtf…Clown shooters

  2. I lost the last one. It went off into cyberspace somewhere. My friend’s tip on enlarging the letters to read your posts was right on. Now I can easily read it.

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